Blowing Out the Candle
by Emmitha
Summary: Human!AU one-shot. Based off of RENT.


**Okay, so this is just a quick one-shot I wrote because I was bored. It's not my best work, but it was fun to write! It's based off of RENT, but only follows the story of Rose and John (who are based on Mimi and Rodger). A bit of a happier ending from the movie. Also! Any recognizable material from either Doctor Who or RENT does not belong to me and I am not profiting off of them in any way. So please don't sue me; you wouldn't get much anyway. **

**If you care to leave a review, that would be lovely. Anyone who wants to give me a prompt (as I am having a hard time creating one of my own) will be rewarded with virtual cookies!**

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Rose pulled her shawl tighter about her as she let herself into her building, her free hand slipping a small bag of white powder into her pocket. She should have enough to last her for a bit, now, which was good; her dealer, Adam, gave her the creeps.

She was halfway up the stairs when the lights cut out with an audible _click!_, leaving Rose in the semi-darkness, still two floors short of her flat. _'Of course,'_ she thought to herself as she continued to climb, _'Christmas Eve and they cut the power. Bah humbug!'_ She giggled a bit at her own thoughts, then shivered—and not entirely from the cold.

She walked into her flat, which was partially illuminated from the lights outside. "What to do, what to do," she mused, looking around. Spotting a candle, she grinned. There was a flat above hers that was occupied by two good looking blokes, and she'd been looking for a reason to talk to them. It seemed she'd found her reason.

Snatching the candle and ditching the shawl, she returned to the hallway to go up one more flight of stairs, pausing on the landing when she got dizzy. _'Better make it a short visit,'_ she thought to herself once her head cleared.

She knocked on the door, and leaned on the jam, waiting.

"What did you forget?" An exasperated voice said, sliding the door open. The body attached to the voice was tall, with even taller hair. He was clad in sweats and a t-shirt, allowing Rose to see his fit arms. There was a look of surprise on his face as he realized he was not talking to who he thought he was.

"Got a light?" She smiled, holding up her candle, and stepping inside without waiting to be invited.

"Um, yeah," he said watching her walk right past him. He didn't seem to mind her rude entrance over much. "…sorry, do I know you?" the man asked, sounding perplexed as he shut the door and walked past her; he paused, frowning at her. "You're shivering," he observed.

Rose shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "They cut off my heat. Could you light my candle?" She asked again, raising an eyebrow and grinning with her tongue between her teeth. He kept glancing at her; she so had him. "What are you staring at?"

He jumped, looking caught. "Ah, nothing, nothing," he muttered guiltily. He dug through a drawer, making a noise of triumph when he found his matches.

Rose grinned, then braced herself against a couch as the world spun around her again. She felt hands grip her elbows and steady her. _'Big hands,'_ she mused.

"Are you alright?" He asked her, sounding worried now. He struck a match and lowered it to her candle, the extra light casting flickering shadows across his cheeks.

Rose grinned again. "Just haven't eaten much today, at least the room stopped spinning, anyway." He was staring at her again, and Rose was realizing it was less because he was interested in her, and more of something else. "What?" She asked, raising the eyebrow again.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking guilty again. "Ah, nothing." He paused, before continuing. "Your smile reminded me of—"

"I always remind people of," Rose cut him off, a bit bitterly. She smiled crookedly, and turned away to look at the guitar on the table. Ah, well. There was still the other bloke who lived here. Wonder where he was? "Who is she?" She asked idly, running a finger across the strings of the guitar.

"She died," he said softly. Rose's eyes snapped back up, and a slow smile spread across her face. "Her name was Sarah Jane," he added.

A quick puff of air was all it took. "It's out again," Rose said, turning back to him, and holding out the candle. "Sorry 'bout your friend," she added, purposefully calling the dead girl his friend. She felt bad for him, honestly; he had obviously been attached to this girl. But he was single and unclaimed, so all was fair.

He lit another match, and the wick sprang to life again. "Well," he started, sounding awkward now. Rose got the feeling awkward was a big part of his personality.

"Yeah?" She prompted, stepping closer to him. "Ow!" She jumped, pulling a hand away from the candle in pain.

"Oh, the wax…" He murmured, taking her hand to look at it, apparently without thinking.

"It's dripping," Rose agreed, watching their hands, then grinning mischievously. She wrapped her fingers around his and pulled his hand towards her chest. "I like it between my—"

"Fingers!" He yelped, eyes panicking and jerking away his hand. "Uh, I figured…" he ran his hand through his hair again, making it stick up even more. "Oh, well…um, goodnight," he finished lamely.

Rose raised an eyebrow, and sighed, turning to leave. He might've been interested, but was far too shy to do anything about it. Ah, well. She could do something about her shivering, at least; she reached into her pocket, checking for the little white baggie. It wasn't there.

It wasn't there.

It. Wasn't. There.

She froze in the doorway, her hand going to knock on the jam again.

"It blew out again?" He asked, hopefully, she thought.

She came in, looking at the ground, frowning. "No, I think that I dropped my stash," she muttered, searching.

"I know I've seen you," he said, apparently not caring about her current predicament. "Your candle's out," he added, quieter.

She ignored him, growing aggravated. "I know that I had it when I walked in the door. It was pure!" she groaned. "Is it on the floor?" She muttered, dropping to the ground to look. It was too hard to see without the lights.

"On the floor?" She heard him mutter, suddenly remembering he was there, and smiled to herself as she felt his eyes on her arse.

"They say that I have the best arse below Fourteenth Street," she said conversationally, and turned to look over her shoulder at him to discover his eyes were indeed glued to her rear end. "Is it true?"

"What?" He asked, startled, his eyes returning to hers.

She sat back on her knees. "You're staring again."

His face went red enough to provide some light to the room. "Oh, no," he stuttered, apparently trying to explain. "I, I mean you do," he said quickly, as she rose an eyebrow, "Have a nice a—" he practically choked here, and Rose bit her lip to keep from laughing. Oh, this was too fun! "You look familiar," he finally managed, saying it a bit too loudly in his attempt to change the subject.

She rolled her eyes and went back to looking. She saw him get down on the ground from the corner of her eye. "Like your dead girlfriend," she reminded him as she crawled along.

"Only when you smile," he corrected, and she thought she heard a smile in his voice. "But I'm sure I've seen you somewhere else," he added. They crawled around a table and found themselves face to face.

"Do you go to the Bad Wolf Club? That's where I work; I dance," she explained. Somehow she doubted that this shy, awkward man had ever been to the Bad Wolf.

"Right," he grinned, dragging out the word as recognition bloomed on his face. Turns out she was wrong about the club. "They used to tie you up," he grinned, raising an eyebrow.

She made a face. "It's a living," she said flatly, grabbed a piece of paper off the floor to examine it, only to toss it aside when it wasn't what she was looking for.

"I didn't recognize you without the handcuffs," he commented, teasing. When did Mr. Shy and Awkward turn into this teasing flirt? She wasn't sure how she felt about it, so she turned to him, holding out the candle again.

"We could light the candle," she suggested, refusing to respond to the last comment. He reached out to light it again, his hands brushing hers this time.

"Why don't you forget that stuff?" He asked in a faintly disapproving tone. _'Seems like he's caught on to what we're looking for.'_ "You look like you're sixteen," he added, as if that made a difference.

She stood up and moved away. "I'm nineteen," she informed him. He stood up as well, and she bumped her hip into his. "I'm old for my age," she told him lightly, walking away to check the other side of the room.

"I used to shiver like that," he told her.

"I have no heat, I told you!" She objected, turning to look at him again.

"I used to sweat."

She paused, then shrugged. "I've got a cold."

"I used to be a junkie." He raised that eyebrow again, and Rose was starting to wonder if they were alive, the way they moved.

"Now and then I like to feel good," she admitted, shrugging and grinning with her tongue between her teeth again.

"Oh, here!" He said suddenly, bending over and grabbing something.

"What?" She hurried over to him, but he was already sticking whatever it was into his pocket.

"Nothing, candy bar wrapper," he muttered unconvincingly.

Rose raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but didn't comment, only muttered something about her (still lit) candle, trying to slip her hand into his pocket. She dropped her eyes for one moment, and the light went out. He stepped away from her wandering hand, smirking. The candle was out.

"What did you do to my candle?" She asked in exasperation, stepping towards him again. He hurriedly sat down, the pocket holding her bag pressed into the side of the couch. Alright, he wanted to play games? She could play games.

"That was my last match," he said lamely.

She smiled slowly, and stepped on the couch between his legs, ignoring his quick inhalation of air, to climb over him and sit on the arm of the couch, her feet neatly between his legs, just brushing the inside of his upper thigh. "Our eyes will adjust. Thank god for the moon," she shrugged, leaning forward to brace herself on her thighs.

He looked uncomfortable again; she liked it. "Maybe it's not the moon at all. I hear Moffat is shooting down the street!" He rambled, his voice a bit shaky, finger pointing at the window.

She grabbed his hand, and started playing with the fingers. She could just pick up his racing pulse at his wrist. She smiled, looking at the hand. "Bah humbug," she murmured.

"Cold hands," he whispered hoarsely, not looking at her.

"Yours, too," she responded. "Big," she smiled, "like my father's." She wrapped her hand more securely around his, and leapt to her feet. "Do you wanna dance?" She asked excitedly, pulling him to his feet.

"With you?" he choked, looking half excited, half terrified. She wondered how much experience he had with women, to be this skittish.

"No," she grinned, "With my father."

He let out a short, surprised laugh. "I'm John," he told her, as if it had just occurred to him.

She had what she wanted, though. She put one hand on his hip, and walked around him, practically dancing, dragging her hand across his torso as she went. "They call me Rose," she said, waving the littlie baggie that she'd managed to slip from his pocket in front of him. She grinned triumphantly, then walked back out the door.

It had been about a week since Christmas Eve, and Rose hadn't heard from John. Not for a lack of trying, on her part, either. She'd left him a note asking him to lunch on Christmas Day, and others, as well, but he hadn't responded.

She'd pretty much decided to give up, but one night after work, she needed to wind down, and decided to try with John one more time. She twirled and danced through the streets as she went, humming to herself. She'd had a quick visit with Adam (who still gave her the creeps; good god, it would at least be a little better if he would look at her face and not her chest), and so she was hoping to really show John a good time tonight. He'd teased her a little bit the first time they'd met, but had mostly been shy. She was hoping to relieve him of that shyness.

She decided to forgo the front door in favor of the fire escape, climbing quickly in her energized state. She slipped through the unlocked window into John's flat; he was sitting on the couch, strumming his guitar. He looked up in askance as she came in and walked towards him. She smiled at him in a sultry manner, and moved to straddle him. He quickly put his guitar aside, and she pressed her lips to his, pulling the bag of smack from her pocket.

He seemed into for a few minutes, his arms winding around her waist, and pulling her close, moaning into her mouth. But all too soon, he seemed to realize what he was doing, and pulled away, a look of anger on his face. Rose looked at him, confused, but John was already moving to stand up, and she had to scramble off his lap.

"Who do you think you are?" He growled, stalking away from her. "The door's over there!" He snapped, "So take your powder and your needles and get out!" He threw open the door, waiting for her to leave and refusing to look at her.

Rose came over slowly, and put a gentle hand on his arm. "What are you so afraid of?" she whispered.

John jerked his arm away as if he'd been burned. "I don't know what you thought was going to happen here tonight, but you were wrong. Get out," he said quietly, but with the anger still clear and present.

"No, you're afraid of something," Rose said, determined now. John scoffed and went back to the couch. "You have to let go of it!" Rose followed him, undeterred. "You don't know much time you have on this planet. I live each moment as my last. Maybe you should try it."

He scoffed again, and glared at her. "If you're so wise then why do you need smack?" He snapped, and surged to his feet. Rose took a step back, but he grabbed her roughly by the arm and pulled her to the still open door, all but throwing her out. "Not you. Not now. Not ever," he growled, and slammed the door.

Rose stared at the door for a moment, angry and confused. He'd been into her when she first came in, what had happened that made him so angry all of a sudden? She made an angry noise in her throat, and whirled around to leave, almost running into someone. She jumped in surprise, and took a step back.

"Sorry about that," the man before her said cheerfully, and with a charming grin.

"My fault," Rose muttered, and moved to walk around him.

"Wait! You're, ah, Rose, right?" The man asked her. Rose turned back to face him, an eyebrow cocked in askance. "John's mentioned you a couple of times," he admitted.

"Oh," Rose said in understanding. "You're the other bloke that lives up here."

"That's me! Jack. Take it John's never mentioned me?"

Rose felt her face pull down into a glare as her eyes shifted to the door. "The only talking we've done is for him to chew me out for no apparent reason," she muttered.

Jack frowned. "That's not right…" he muttered to himself, turning to contemplate the closed door, as if he could see through and to his roommate. He turned back to Rose. "I'll talk to him. Don't…don't give up on him, alright?" He smiled at her once more, then slipped inside. Rose thought she heard John start to yell again, but it ended quickly. Muttering to herself, Rose went back down to her apartment.

It wasn't until another week later that Rose saw John again, and then it was on accident. A friend of a friend's was putting on some sort of protest show down the street, and Rose had promised to go. "Ianto!" She called, waving her hand to call her friend over. He grinned and ran over to hug her.

When they broke apart, Rose finally saw who was following him. There were a few people she didn't recognize, but John and Jack drew her eyes. Jack greeted her cheerfully before putting an arm around Ianto's waist. Rose raised an eyebrow and grinned, winking at Ianto as the two walked away.

"Can I talk to you?" John asked just loud enough to be heard. He was staring at his shoes; converse, she noted. His whole outfit was different than the past two times she'd seen him: gone where the sweats and t-shirts. They had been replaced by a brown pinstriped suit complete with a brown tie with blue swirls. It was strange, seeing him like this.

"Alright," she agreed after a moment of silence. They walked off to the side so that they could hear each other better.

"I'm…" he sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, an action that was becoming familiar to Rose. "I'm sorry. About my behavior. The other night," he mumbled. Rose raised an eyebrow; he wasn't very good at apologies. "A bunch of us are going down to the TARDIS café after this. You…you should come," he looked up at her with a hesitant smile.

Rose considered him for a moment. "Alright," she smiled. His answering grin was blinding, and she laughed when he offered her his arm. She took it and they went inside, pushing their way over to Ianto and Jack and the others.

The show, put on by a woman named Amy, was great, but cut short by a bit of a riot. Well, a big riot. John dragged Rose out before it got too bad, and they all went down to the TARDIS to café to wait for the rest of John's friends, and make sure they all got out safely.

Amy was complaining to her boyfriend Rory about the police provoking the riot when Jack and Ianto finally came in. John raised an eyebrow at Jack, and Jack grinned in response. John smiled, apparently relieved.

"No, no, not tonight, please, you have to leave," a frazzled looking waiter said desperately as he came up to them.

"What, why?" Jack demanded.

"You come in, and sit for hours, and never order anything!"

"That's not true, I had a tea the other day!" Jack countered.

The waiter glared at him. "You couldn't pay."

"Oh, right," Jack muttered.

Ianto smiled and came forward, pulling a wad of cash from his jacket. "Tonight, we can!"

The waiter glared at the money for a moment, before sighing. "Fine, fine, just don't move the—" the group surged around him and began to rearrange the tables to better seat their group. The waiter sighed. "Tables…" he muttered, stalking off.

Rose sat next to John, who, despite his earlier excitement, had barely spoken more than two words to her the whole night. Actually, he'd spoken seven words to her. "We need to leave" right as the riot broke out, and "Are you alright?" after they'd left.

She'd been determined to ignore him right back, but it wasn't working quite as well as she'd hoped. She was talking to a girl named Martha, when Amy's voice soon rose above the noise of the rest of them.

"Harold Saxon. The enemy of Avenue A."

"What brings the Mogul in his own mind to the TARDIS café?" Jack called sarcastically.

Rose turned to look at the man they were talking about. Oh, Harry. She knew him, used to have a thing with him. But then she'd found out he was married, and that he was the one who kept shutting off the power in her building; it put a bit of damper on things.

She shook herself, realizing she'd lost the string of the conversation. "Why wasn't Lucy at the show tonight?" John asked. _'Sure, he'll talk to _him_,'_ Rose thought bitterly, then tried to shove the feelings away.

Harold looked down for a moment. "We had a death in the family," he said stiffly.

"Who died?" Ianto asked, trying to be polite.

"Our Akita." Ianto went pale, and looked away, whispering to Jack. Jack and John looked at each other, small smiles braking out on their faces. "Toclafane!" They both exclaimed. Rose rose an eyebrow.

"You make fun, but I'm the one trying to do some good. Or do you really enjoy living in a rundown neighborhood where people piss on your stoop every night? This is London. Bohemia is dead," Harold snapped, before returning to his table.

Jack walked directly behind him, doing a funny impersonation of his walk. Rose pressed her hand over her mouth to stop a giggle. Jack stopped at the head of a table, and lifted a beer into the air. "A toast!" He proclaimed. Everyone scurried to lift their glasses into the air. "To the death of Bohemia!"

"La vie boeheme!" They all chorused solemnly, taking a drink. Jack grinned, and flicked off Harold, before returning to his seat.

They talked and laughed and generally just disturbed the peace for the next few hours, until the manager finally kicked them out. Rose grabbed John's arm, and pulled him aside as they were all leaving, finally fed up with the silent treatment.

"Look, did I do something wrong?" She asked, her annoyance seeping into her voice. "I get invited, then ignored all night long!"

John ran a hand through his hair, and Rose had the urge to smack it away. "I'm trying. I promise, I am, it's just…" he motioned helplessly with his hands.

"Just what?" Rose demanded.

"Did you know there's an eleven year age difference between us? I feel like I'm taking advantage of you and—ow, hey!" He protested as Rose slapped him upside the head (a considerable feat, given that she was a good foot shorter than him). He rubbed his head, and looked at her reproachfully. "What was that for?"

"For being a bloody idiot, that's what!" Rose snapped, throwing her hands in the air. "You think I care about that? I told you I live each moment as my last, and that means I don't care about some bloody age difference! And it's not even that big of one! Jesus, you'd think you were ancient or some—" she was cut off rather pleasantly by John's lips suddenly crashing down against hers.

"That's better," she muttered, once he let her go. John grinned at her.

"I have a New Year's Resolution!" Rose announced one day as she climbed into the flat.

John looked up from his guitar, and rose an eyebrow. "You realize New Years was about a month ago, right?" He asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He smiled more freely now that they'd finally gotten together.

It had been three weeks since the night of Amy's protest, and they'd been getting to know each other since then. A lot more slowly than Rose wanted to, but she figured he was worth it. Besides, Jack thought they were being too "cutesy," and it was way too fun to gross Jack out like that.

"So I'm a little late," Rose shrugged, plopping down on the couch next to John.

He put his guitar aside, and pulled her into his lap. "So, what's your resolution?" He asked, burying his face in her neck.

Rose ran her fingers through his hair, smiling. "I'm giving up heroin," she whispered.

The effects were immediate; John sat bolt upright and stared at Rose to make sure she wasn't joking. He'd been after her to get off the drug since the beginning (literally, he'd first tried during the candle incident). "You're serious?" He asked, eyes searching hers.

She smiled, and nodded. John laughed, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'm going to need your help, though," she said softly, her voice unsure now. "The withdrawal…it's supposed to be brutal…"

John held her tight, her head tucked under his chin. "It is," he agreed quietly. "But I promise to be here with you every step of the way."

It started a few hours later. This was the part Rose was used to: the shivering, the occasional dizzy spells. She got these every time she waited a little too long to take her next dose.

But by the next day, she was sweating and shaking violently, vomiting until there was nothing left in her stomach, and yet still trying to bring up more. It was complete and utter hell, and she could do little more than lie on the bathroom floor and beg John for more of the drug her body craved so desperately.

He refused, but held her tightly, trying to still her shaking. When he realized just how bad her fever had gotten, he filled the bathtub with ice water, then sat in the tub with her, both of them shivering now.

The ice bath lowered her fever, and helped a bit with the aches, but did nothing for the nausea.

"Please," Rose whimpered, her head still bowed over the empty toilet. "Please…"

John was rubbing her back. "No, you know I can't," he whispered, voice pained. "You can do this, you're so strong, you can do this…" he whispered over and over.

John endured her cravings and nausea, her mood swings that left her weakly pounding on his chest, screaming terrible things. He sat with her for three nights straight as she tossed and turned and moaned. He forced water down her throat in a desperate attempt to keep her hydrated. He whispered words of encouragement and love to her while she cried and vomited.

By the fourth morning, her symptoms had abated somewhat. She was able to keep down water and a few crackers, and her fever was almost completely gone. She was still sore, and the room spun far more than it should, but it was clear the worst was over.

Rose and John finally managed to get some sleep that day.

Rose woke up to find the room dark. She was in John's bed, his arms around her waist and holding her close to his bare chest. She watched his sleeping face quietly for a time, then reached out to gently trace his features, her hand shaking only the slightest bit.

Eventually John yawned, and opened his eyes. He smiled sleepily when he saw her, and she retracted her hand. "How are you feeling?" He asked quietly.

"Better. Not one hundred percent, but better." She smiled and rested her hand on his cheek. "Thanks to my wonderful Doctor."

He smiled, and nuzzled his face into her hand.

A small frown moved across Rose's face. "While I was…sick. I said such terrible things to you…" she whispered as previously foggy memories came to the forefront of her mind. "I'm so sorry."

John shook his head, and Rose could feel his stubble scrapping at her hand; he hadn't shaved in several days. "It wasn't you. Not really. But it's okay, because you're better now." He smiled hugely. "You're free."

Rose grinned and reached up to kiss him. He returned it whole heartedly, but pulled away when her hands started to wander in a southerly direction. "Not yet," he whispered, his forehead pressed to hers and his eyes closed. "You're still weak. Not until you're completely better." Rose huffed, and John smiled, keeping his eyes closed. "Listen to your Doctor."

After a few days, Rose's withdrawal was nothing but a distant memory. She avoided all of the places she knew Adam frequented, though, just to be safe; she didn't quite trust herself not to get more just yet.

She'd all but officially moved in with John, which was fine, since Jack had basically moved in with Ianto. Which was definitely good, since Rose and John's first time ended up being in the not-so-private kitchen.

It was John's fault, really, Rose mused. She'd been minding her own business, trying to find food in the constantly bare cupboards when John had come up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I love you," he whispered. It was the first time either of them had said it, and, well, Rose reacted enthusiastically.


End file.
